


On Midnight Snacks and Monikers

by Redisaid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Sometimes you get sad about how empty your lover's fridge is and go back to bed with her, That's it, that's the whole fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redisaid/pseuds/Redisaid
Summary: Ashe is disappointed in the state of Widowmaker's fridge, and wonders what that means about her and the spider she's found herself in bed with.
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 10
Kudos: 70





	On Midnight Snacks and Monikers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UninspiredPoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UninspiredPoet/gifts).



“Do you want something?”

Upon asking this simple question, Ashe realized she had never seen Widowmaker eat anything. Not even a crumb. Sure, she’d come across sticky wine glasses--their rims stained with greasy imprints of lips, a kiss half-formed with the wine they once held--but nothing else. 

Even now, with her bare legs chilled and her pale skin lit to blazing white by the light of the open fridge, she didn’t know she was expecting to find within. It wasn’t much. An unopened bottle of sparkling water. A small jar of mustard. Still-wrapped pads of butter like you’d find at a hotel breakfast. And the six pack of beer Ashe had brought with her, that Amélie had so hastily stashed here, out of sight and out of mind.

Was it Amélie or Widowmaker? Even Ashe’s thoughts couldn’t fully decide. And as the face of the hardened sniper stared at her from across the room, an echo of surprise and shame ghosting across her golden eyes, Ashe thought that she might feel the same way about herself. Just maybe.

Ashe snatched a bottle of beer and closed the door quickly to save them both from the thought, and from the harsh light that filled the studio apartment. A small, sparse place. A spider’s nest, connected only by thin threads to the rest of her web--a web that strung across many such nests in many cities all over the world.

It was only when her eyes began to adjust back to the relative darkness of the flat that she noticed the bottle of red wine on the counter. 

“Wine?” she added, though the second question came too late to follow the first. Too awkward.

“Were you really looking for a drink, or for a midnight snack?” Widowmaker asked from across the room, regaining her impassive composure in the darkness, if the sex in her voice could tell, at least.

So Ashe decided to respond in kind, wearing the mask she too had made for herself, “I would argue that I’ve already had my snack, darlin’.”

And she had. She could still taste her on her lips. Ashe caught herself running a tongue over them livaciously. It would be a shame to wash that away with beer. But she was thirsty. And hungry, yes. For something other than women.

A church key bottle opener was the last thing she expected to find in Amélie’s apartment, but apparently they come attached to wine corkscrews sometimes. Who would know? Ashe used the delightful invention to pop the top on her beer, trying not to be sentimental about how entwined it made her feel with the woman who was still waiting for her to come back to bed.

A bed made of a cheap mattress on a cheap frame, but with sheets of luxury silk. A woman with the body of a dancer, skin like ice, and the smell of gunpowder always lingering on her fingertips, regardless of what other places they had ventured besides her weapon.

An ever-perplexing contradiction, that was Amélie “Widowmaker” Lacroix, nee Guillard. Almost enough to match Elizabeth Caledonia “Calamity” Ashe. 

“I will pass on the wine,” Widowmaker answered at the sound of the bottle cap falling onto the counter.

“Suit yourself,” Ashe replied. 

The beer was cold and smooth enough going down her throat. If her goal was to get drunk, it wouldn’t be her choice. Good bourbon would be, but that was hard to find here in Austria. But good beer was everywhere. That, and Ashe didn’t want to get drunk. Not tonight. Not here. Not with her.

She only drained a quarter of it before the bottle ended up forgotten on the bedside table. Before Ashe was back in those silk sheets with a woman who should have been like the silk, cold and soft, but instead had an unbreakable hardness to her. One that Ashe was determined to crack, still. Because Widowmaker was paint chipping off of Amélie, little by little, bit by bit.

And Ashe liked when she could see the surprise in her eyes. 

Because beneath the veneer of the reticent sniper, there was a woman who deserved the finest wine, and for someone to feed her little bites of cheese and fruit. Someone whose laugh would bubble up through pillow talk, and who would be just as content to fall asleep in waiting arms as she would to go for round two. Ashe was so sure of it. Even though she only knew her from glimpses and reading between the lines of case files. 

Ashe’s shirt was still on, but unbuttoned. The white cotton of its hem dragged across Amélie’s--no, Widowmaker’s--blue-tinged skin as she settled atop her once again. 

But there was no surprise in those eyes when she kissed her. Because kissing was the expectation. Not even when Ashe’s tongue sought entrance to those lips that left evidence of their secret kisses on crystal, or not when two fingers sought to find the only source of heat within Widowmaker, still as wet as she left it.

“I thought you needed a break?” Widowmaker asked, the question turning into a murmur of appreciation as Ashe began to work her hand.

“I changed my mind,” Ashe answered. 

She had. For many reasons. One, because she was hungry, but there was no food in this place, and sex was an acceptable distraction. Two, because she didn’t like to keep women waiting for her in bed. And three, because that woman was who she was, whoever that was right now.

Because that woman could still be warm and alive, back arching beneath her, pushing them both up into the tangle of silken sheets that wrapped their bare legs. Widowmaker was wearing nothing at all, as evidenced by the hiss she let out when one of Ashe’s hands dared to glide over a breast, then back up to repeat the motion.

Because Amélie Lacroix, or Guillard if she so preferred it, was a sensitive woman. Ashe was skilled with her hands, sure, but Amélie made her feel godlike in her ability to wring pleasure out of her with them. And that was what she was there for. No surprises in that. Just gasping and shuddering and muttered French that Amélie must have assumed Ashe couldn’t understand, but she did. She always did. Prep school would do that to a girl, after all. Drill enough French into her that she could recognize her lover’s dazed utterances.

She ignored calls for more, of course, because it would be over so fast. She felt Amélie the most in these moments, a woman desperately seeking more--seeking something beyond. Even Widowmaker has that ambition--that drive to succeed. Dancing, killing, orgasm. How different could they really be?

“Easy,” Ashe urged her. Her hips straddled Amélie’s legs just above her knees, and she ground down on them to keep her still. 

“Please,” Amélie whimpered.

For a moment, Ashe stilled her ministrations. She merely looked over the curves and lines that made up Widowmaker, and the liquid thing that was Amélie beneath them. When those golden eyes opened again, they were all Amélie, surprise and frustration. 

And for her, Ashe continued. For her, she moved her thumb to bring pressure to where Amélie needed it from her. To bring her the release she so desired. Again and again. Over and over. Each time they met, quivering and shaking until there was nothing left of her to question. Until she was not Widowmaker or Amélie or anyone, merely a woman spent, asleep at last.

Ashe wondered how long it would take tonight. She wondered if Widowmaker could sleep otherwise. If she were nothing but a tool, a means to an end, Ambien with slick, but talented fingers.

But it hardly matters to her. Because those were her fingers Amélie was coming from. Because she can know for certain that tonight, she will rest at ease, eventually. Because in the morning, she will find them both breakfast. Amélie probably won’t eat it in front of her, but she might when Ashe leaves for her flight back to the States. Toast spread with those hoarded pats of butter. Eggs washed down with warm red wine.

It’s something. Some sort of caring. Some sort of connection. A thing neither of them want, yet a thing neither of them would dare to be rid of.

“That’s it,” Ashe said as she listened to Amélie’s breathing slow again. With one hand, she worked her through the rest of her aftershocks, but she dared to drag the other through long, inky black hair as it spread out below them, free of its customary ponytail.

It’s Amélie, for certain, who pulls their bodies flush together, and doesn’t let go until sleep slackens her arms, finally soft and bereft of tension.


End file.
